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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041726">eggs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathConcepts/pseuds/MathConcepts'>MathConcepts</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Booker is salty about French history, Booker's background angst, Booker's daily scheduled introspection, Food Porn, Gen, I put in the research, M/M, Slice of Life, and the man has MONEY, detailed descriptions of coffee and tea, dunking on the French, gratuitous lack of plot, in case I haven't made this clear, look - Freeform, quynh is a little shit, these people live together and they are HAPPY about it, uncomfortably long descriptions of eggs and kitchen implements, we're jumping on the bandwagon of Copley being fucking rich here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:49:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathConcepts/pseuds/MathConcepts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's ten in the morning. They're having omelettes. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, let's discuss Quynh's choice of coffeemaker, shall we?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Booker | Sebastien le Livre &amp; Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/James Copley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>eggs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>No plot, no anything, let's see how these assholes act in the morning, shall we?</p><p>Now complete with links to some of the expensive things mentioned.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/><br/>Copley is making omelettes in the kitchen when Booker drags himself out of their shared bed, they had a lie-in after the night's rigorous activities, and Booker was still having that lie in well into the morning. Copley, who never admonishes him about sleeping in, -<em> "I understand, you're an old man, you need your rest,"</em> and laughs at the <em>are you fucking serious</em> face Booker gives him - just looks up with a smile and a nod as Booker comes in to the room, and says -<br/><br/>"Can you get some more eggs out?"<br/><br/>Scrubbing a hand through his bedhead Booker goes over to the fridge, which like everything in Copley's house is modern and sleek and costs upwards of so many thousands of dollars. Eight thousand for this <a href="https://home.liebherr.com/en/gbr/products/household-appliances/built-in-appliances/built-in-fridge-freezers/details/ecbn-6256.html">Liebherr fridge</a>, to be exact. At first, Booker had been confessedly at a loss as to why Copley and Quynh got along so well, but if one bothers to compare statements from each of their bank accounts - Quynh has one now, thanks to Copley - it becomes quite obvious <em>why</em>.<br/><br/>They're both, well, decadent. In their own way. Copley's hedonism comes in quieter, he's more humble about his wealth and tastes than Quynh, who spends and adorns and lavishes herself - and them - like there's no tomorrow. One is not better than the other. It's simply all a bit much to a poor Frenchman like himself.<br/><br/>By that line of reasoning, one might expect Copley to be a man of simpler tastes and wants. One would be wrong to expect that. Copley had the means to see his wife to the bitter end without loss of capital, and the means and more to continue his life here in this state-of-the-art house when his engagement with the government ended, who preferred to spend it there, the man who spent a million, or two, and the lives of nearly a dozen on a petty trap without a qualm, the man who had the means and connections to pick four individuals from the numerous others in the world, the man who always wears pressed suits and high-priced watches, and fancies bistros and cafes that are on just this side of being <em>members only.</em></p><p><br/>Eggs? Eggs are on the third shelf, always on the third shelf. Fresh herbs are below that, in the clear compartment specifically designated for their use. Beside that is the compartment given to the assorted fruits and vegetables. Milk is on the uppermost shelf, never on any other, various condiments are kept in the door compartments, Copley's non-dairy, and frankly, disgusting coffee creamer is on the second shelf, along with last night's left over pad thai and the fruit salad Quynh buys from the new vegan market downtown. Each neatly sequestered in their own glass, <em>glass</em> tupperware. <br/><br/>Even Nicky, who loves food with the religious passion of any Italian, does not own glass tupperware.<br/><br/>But then again, that's just Copley. The man is meticulously neat and clean and overly organized. "He's good influence for you then." Quynh had told him when he complained, Quynh who had been around and privy to the hygiene practices of the French court in the 1500's, and who thought she was being funny. <br/><br/>He takes out the eggs. They're in an unmarked carton, Copley drives out every week to Hampshire to buy ethically sourced eggs from an elderly lady who keeps chickens out there. Booker gets it, he does, and he never fails to marvel a bit at Copley's commitment to hold himself to certain standards, even with something as simple as eggs. It's just that organic eggs, fancy tupperware and expensive fridges have not been a factor in his life up until now. <br/><br/>Him and the team have lived lean and mean for as nearly as long as he can remember, the times were just taking a turn for the modern when he came into the picture, and the lap of luxury was something neither safe nor inconspicuous to linger in anymore. Had never really been for any of them. <br/><br/>He didn't mind. He never minded. His own place in Paris, before he was spirited away by Copley and Quynh was nowhere a benchmark of luxury, or even comfort.<br/><br/>Hotels, hideouts, whiskey. Dark, cramped, warm rooms. Coziness, chipped plates, stacked books, second-hand clothes. Knees knocking together around a tiny table. Worn couches, aged oak dressers. The sports channel, playing endlessly. Food that he knew was delicious but never really tasted all the same. Joe knows how to bake beautifully, such a tragedy that he never fully appreciated it.<br/><br/></p><p>Muffled whimpers in the night, when Joe and Nicky would fuck, maybe after a hard mission when they needed it, needed each other as much as breathing. Or maybe just because they wanted to. They were considerate, and polite, so it would be in the next room, or under some sort of cover, but Booker had seem them, it was inevitable. Joe had had Nicky on the table that time, his hand over his mouth to keep him quiet - yes, Nicky could be loud, although one wouldn't think it - lips on his neck, whispering things against his skin, while Nicky clung to him, his legs locked around his waist. <br/><br/>The bottle was always there for him if it got too much, or Andy, who would sometimes turn to him in the night. They were still both human, after all, and sex was just sex. <br/><br/>It was also as much as about trust than anything else. <br/><br/>Fuck.  <br/><br/>He puts the eggs on the counter, snags a chunk of cheese off the marble cheeseboard at Copley's elbow before he can start thinking too much about things he<em> does not want to fucking think about</em>, and gets blindsided by Quynh as she darts past him, having appeared from the depths of the house. Although she's in silky pajamas, her sleeves are rolled up, and her fingers and forearms are dotted with paint, so she's been awake and painting for a while. <br/><br/><br/>See, everything is so different now.<br/><br/>There's a home, cafes, coffee. Everything is light and wide and modern. Marble cutting boards, glass tupperware, expensive computers, designer clothes. Barstools around a counter that has room for four and more. Furniture that looks like its never been used, meticulously organized fridges. Soft music from the gleaming stereo tucked away on the shelf over there. Food he tastes now. But none of Copley's fancy bakeries ever come close to Joe's bread.  <br/><br/>There's someone sleeping next to him every night now, and it's Quynh that listens in on them now, not him.<br/><br/>He's still betraying the team, he thinks. His agreed upon sentence was supposed to be that, a sentence, but despite everything, he's living comfortably, too comfortably, while they're still out there, fighting, living like vagabonds. <br/><br/>On the other hand, maybe, just maybe, this is what he<em> needs</em>. To live like this. He won't deny he's better. So much better. At some point he was simply swept away in it all, and never really came back. But he isn't so sure. He might never be.  <br/><br/>Maybe he can allow himself this, at least for now. He has years, oh so many years, to find another way to atone, after all.<br/><br/>He's broken out by his reverie by Quynh elbowing him to request her teapot, which he pulls off the appropriate shelf and gives to her. She brews tea to drink in the morning, where most people would take coffee. Copley does takes coffee, but decaf. It's fucking heinous. What really is the point then?<br/><br/>Not to mention he has to wait until <em>after</em> the nasty stuff finishes brewing so he can wash out the coffee maker and put down his true and <em>caffeinated</em> stuff to go. <br/><br/><br/>That's the reason why here's <em>two</em> coffee makers in this kitchen now, instead of one. At some point Qyunh had not found his bitching about it charming anymore, and went out and purchased the expensive and aptly named <a href="https://keesvanderwesten.com/speedster/"><em>van der Westen Speedster</em></a>, so that he could brew his coffee concurrently with Copley's bean juice. He was horrified when she'd brought the chrome monster home - fucking <em>20,000</em> for a coffee maker? In what world? This is the type of exorbitant shit that caused the fucking French revolution- but now it's become as necessary as breathing to him.<br/><br/>He turns away towards the coffee makers in question, stuffing the cheese in his mouth, pulling out two mugs along the way. One for Copley, one for him. He's considered switching Copley's coffee out, give him a taste of the real stuff, but even a benign little trick such as that makes his stomach clench. <br/><br/>Well, if he ever needed proof that he was sorry for what he did, feeling like he wants to throw up at the thought of purposefully sabotaging someone else's coffee is more than likely proof enough.<br/><br/>He pours the coffee out from each appropriate machine, and now it's back to the fridge. Takes out that disgusting creamer and browns Copley's cup. A touch of sugar. Takes out the heavy cream he uses, browns his own cup. Three spoonfuls of sugar. A touch of cinnamon. <br/><br/>Quymh's tea is steeping behind him, he can smell it. She drinks it mostly plain, in little clay cups, but sometimes adds honey. He turns back to the counter, where Copley is sliding an omelette onto each of the three plates he has set out. A perfect golden brown semicircle, gently bubbling and crispy here and there.<br/><br/>They smell fucking delicious. </p><p>He sets the cups down, and settles onto a stool, scooting himself up the counter. Quynh slides in on the other side, Copley in the middle, who takes his mug, and they all start breakfast in companionable silence. <br/><br/>The omelettes are as delicious as they smell. Cheese, thinly sliced mushroom and peppers. Booker would not call omelettes his most favorite food, but these confections of cheese and eggs and mushrooms seem the best way to go about it making them so. His appetite has been normalizing over the months, now that he's been allowing it more than hard liquor.<br/><br/>He enjoys food, he's still<em> able</em> to enjoy food - he either never had enough of it at some point in his life or was actively ignoring it. Copley however, eats well, and expects everyone else residing in house to do so. Which is much to Booker's benefit as he's found out. <br/><br/><br/>"There's a job for you," Copley says once he's given everyone time to fully appreciate his culinary skills. <br/><br/>"<em>Hm?</em>" Quynh says around a mouthful of eggs and tea. She's perusing the morning paper, Copley has it delivered and <em>reads it</em>, despite having any number of digital outlets to survey the news. <br/><br/>"Nothing like the <em>old-fashioned</em> way." Copley had said, grinning teasingly at Booker. Quynh thinks Copley's jokes are the height of cleverness. Booker very much does not think that. Destiny fucked him when it allowed those two to meet.</p><p>"Should be a smooth one. Retrieval of information, go in, plant a wire, wait around, that sort of thing."  <br/><br/>Booker stabs up another slice of his omelette. "Should be an easy thing for the weekend." he agrees. Quynh flips to the next page of the newspaper and nods along at his words.<br/><br/>"When is it, I want to shop today." she says. Copley rattles off a date and then sips his coffee, pausing to nod over at Booker in thanks when he tastes it. Booker smiles at him,  already uneasy at the mention of shopping.<br/><br/>Shopping with Quynh is less actual shopping than it is a prolonged and personally crafted-to-press-every-button torture session. Of course, every fuck Quynh ever had is at the bottom of the ocean, so Booker is required to grit his teeth and endure. Which he's had a lot of practice in, as it stands.<br/><br/>So, silver lining and all that.<br/><br/><br/>He washes the dishes after breakfast, Quynh has gone to wash up and choose some daywear out of her extensive and ever growing wardrobe, and Copley has disappeared. He reappears right around the time Booker is finishing the dishes, Booker nearly drops a plate to the feel of hands settling on his hips. <br/><br/>"You can come clean my room next," he begins, settling his chin on Booker's shoulder. "You made a mess in there last night." Booker snorts, racks the dish.<br/><br/>"No,<em> you</em> did." Copley chuckles, feints a bite as his neck, starts pulling him away from the sink. Copley is a playful type of fellow, so he has learned.<br/><br/>Of course, Quynh intercepts them on their way back to Copley's bedroom, orders both of them to keep their dicks in their pants and Copley to get out the car - thank whoever the fuck is out there that Quynh can't yet drive, she'd be unstoppable and unbearable if she could.<br/><br/>They lock up and leave, it a nice day outside, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and despite the imminent horror of shopping hanging overhead, Booker has a feeling it'll be quite enjoyable.<br/><br/><br/><br/></p>
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